Death and horror and suffering seemed to push people into a world without time. No more than a few weeks had passed, if the days were to be counted, and yet it already seemed as if the world that had existed before the plague and death began wandering naked through the land had disappeared from everyone's memory--the way the coastline sinks away when a ship heads out to sea on a rushing wind. It was as if no living soul dared hold on to the memory that life and the progression of workdays had once seemed close, while death was far away; nor was anyone capable of imagining that things might be that way again.
* * *
I slept so badly last night--my stomach in a roil, my brain ticking away at useless lists. I don't know why, as on the whole I've slept pretty solidly during this crisis, despite the plethora of strange dreams. And yesterday afternoon I'd hauled a bunch of heavy wheelbarrow loads of semi-composted mulch, so my body should have been happy to relax. But it wasn't.
Still, today will be my first taste of summer weather--mid-70s, bright sunshine--so I'm not sorry about morning. I've almost finished reading KL, but the fact that the main character is dying of plague is not helping me pick up the book, even though (as you can see from the excerpt) the writing and the sensibility are sublime.
Today I will not miss my yoga class. Afterward I'll work on some Frost Place planning, and do some editing, and read some residency applications, and bake bread, and pick up a grocery order, and spread more mulch among the lily and iris beds . . . and I'll try to finish the novel, despite its terrible conclusion, because the book deserves my respect. I'm 55 years old, and who knows if I'll revisit its 1,100 pages ever again? I hope I will. But maybe my time for such rereadings is running out.
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